


Liaison

by nessatheresa12121



Category: Incredibles (Pixar Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 14:27:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16451603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nessatheresa12121/pseuds/nessatheresa12121
Summary: It was a balancing act for Mirage. Stay sultry. Stay in-awe of his power, of his muscles, his girth. Make him feel wanted, needed, lusted after. Give him the ride of his life. Make him want, desperately, to return.She’d do it all. But, hell, she deserved a raise for this.





	Liaison

_Most important, keep things light. Praise him. Make him feel like we appreciate his abilities._

With the gently glowing lava all around them, casting its heat onto their bodies and causing Mirage to worry she’d sweat through her carefully-applied perfume, her boss delivered numerous careful instructions on how to wage psychological warfare on their newest target. That is, until the door in the room behind them creaked open—a quiet sound, but with their sharp and attuned ears, both noticed it. Their victim had arrived.

He was supposed to be dead. If things had gone well, he _would_ be dead.

Mirage’s boss delivered his final instructions. “…and if you feel things are going a certain way, well…” Syndrome chuckled, casting closed eyes toward the ground as though this were all a big joke. “Don’t hold back, sweetheart. That’s all I’m saying.”

He’d given her this particular instruction before, with a few of their marks. Mirage understood why. When their first attempt to destroy their target didn’t go as planned, and the victim survived, Mirage and Syndrome tended to let the target return to their regular life for a little while—smug, sated, suspecting nothing—and then request their return. And _then_ they’d kill them. And with Mr. Incredible, there was a slight—but nonetheless realistic—chance that, once they let him go like a fish into a pond, he might never swim back. Bob Parr had a wife and three kids at home, and if he returned to California and got too complacent, too content, then the next time Mirage called him up for a mission, he might not feel like returning. The guy was obsessed with glory, obsessed with feeling needed as a hero, so this possibility wasn’t _too_ likely. But still. It was possible.

But if Mirage gave him an _incentive_ to return, things would be that much easier. He’d come like a donkey follows a carrot. She was the carrot. More accurately, her body was the carrot. Her pussy was a very sweet carrot indeed.

She’d done it before. She recalled, in colorful detail, what had happened with Hypershock. She’d become _his_ carrot, too, and she remembered the sweat, the smell, the gracelessness of the out-of-shape alcoholic hero’s fat body moving over hers, grunting inelegantly. The taste of wine on his breath—a more expensive wine than he’d ever been able to afford before that night. He’d needed to slap her, three times like clockwork, before he could get off. Squealing like a pig when he did.

She wasn’t eager to repeat _that_ experience.

Gamma Jack had been slightly better, but not by much. She’d tried it with Gazerbeam, but he’d rebuffed her advances; she suspected that particular super might’ve been light in the loafers. Didn’t matter much in the end—despite the lack of the dangling carrot that was Mirage’s cunt, Gazerbeam had returned to the island nonetheless. And died. Just like the rest of them. Died grossly, violently.

They started to melt together after a time. Was Gazerbeam the one who had been finely diced to shreds of meat by the Omnidroid’s propellers, or was it Hypershock who’d had that pleasure? It didn’t really matter which of them had met which fate, in the end. They were all dead. That was what mattered. That was the mission.

And if Mirage’s body could aid the mission as much as her mind could, then Syndrome would use her mind _and_ her body, in equal measure.

 

Liltingly, she told the huge-framed superhero—Mr. Incredible, their most recent mark—that he looked dashing. It was a lie. The suit he wore was nowhere near sharp. It was baggy, and looked ridiculous hanging on his gigantic body. The man was in desperate need of a good tailor. He also wore his superhero mask, and Mirage had to restrain a giggle about that. What identity, exactly, did Robert Parr think he was hiding from her? She already knew everything about him.

Maybe it was just habit. Habits are tough to break.

Mirage knew this better than anyone. During their dinner—sitting at a long stone table, what seemed like acres of space between them, with fruits and fine meats and cheeses and glasses of succulent wine, and the wall of lava radiating light beside them, menacing as always—Mirage couldn’t break her own habits, either. She flirted. She flirted shamelessly. Of course, wearing a dress like _that_ —long, black, made of fabric that mimicked latex as it hugged her slender frame tightly, accentuating every single curve—she couldn’t really do anything _but_ flirt. Her very presence at that table, wearing that dress, was an offering.

She knew how to offer herself. She knew how to become a stuffed goose on a platter, buttered-up and waiting for forks to dig into her flesh. She’d had training in that, among many other skills. Mirage was nothing if not a Renaissance woman, a polymath by nature and by nurture, and if she ever chose to leave Syndrome’s side, she knew she’d instantly get a hundred other requests. Obviously, working with Syndrome had been the most lucrative deal on offer, or else she wouldn’t have chosen him all those years ago. Everything was about money. But now, she stayed with him because she was in too deep to leave, not unless their parting was _very_ amicable indeed. After all, Syndrome had enough dirt on Mirage to have her put in jail for the rest of her life. And she knew he’d do it, too. The man could not stomach betrayal.

MI6, CIA, Mossad, CISEN, NPA, MSS, CNI, KSI, and dozens of other acronyms: all would be happy to have Mirage on their side, and some already had. She was a woman of many, many, many talents, and the ones she’d display tonight—cold reading, seduction, even sexual prowess—were just a drop in the ocean compared to everything she could do. 

Mirage wasn’t her birth name. That name was long-forgotten by all but herself, locked away in a secret box in the back of her mind which would never be opened. Mirage was a nickname, given to her long ago, by a man she’d prefer to forget. (Wasn’t that _all_ of them, though?) And it suited her well. She was a mirage. She looked a vision when you first saw her, but she could easily vanish right before your eyes, making you doubt that anything real had ever been present at all. This was especially true after she’d gone freelance, after she’d stopped allowing agencies to determine her identity or what missions she’d take. The pay she managed to secure as a freelance contractor was far beyond what she could hope to be paid as an agent, anyhow.

Ironically, one of the myriad of reasons Mirage had come to reject agency work was because they made her into a whore. Her beauty was undeniable—a curse, sometimes; a blessing at others—and she was also blessed with a charming husky voice, a chameleonic personality, and a freewheeling intelligence. All those things added up, until her superiors started using her for only one thing. Seduction missions. To be frank, almost every halfway-decent-looking agent in the field could expect to be handed at least _one_ seduction mission during their career. The better-looking agents could expect several. Mirage had done twenty. Not counting the ones she had done for Syndrome.

She’d began to resent it, and who wouldn’t? It grew to be too much. Sure, she was beautiful, but she had other talents, and they were being ignored in favor of sending her straight to the bedroom. She resented being a whore. She resented her beauty being the only valuable thing about her.

But now, the same thing was happening on Nomanisan Island, and Mirage could only grit her teeth and bear it. She’d asked for this, after all, asked for a freelance career which guaranteed her freedom to do as she wished. It had ended up being nothing of the sort—one prison traded for another, slightly-more comfortable jail. But even if she hadn’t got exactly what she wanted…

Well. She was stuck nonetheless.  

 

The dinner commenced.

Mirage lilted and murmured and glanced at her target with eyes barely raised over the rim of her wineglass as she took yet another sip, because Mirage knew how to drink, and though Mr. Incredible would likely be getting dizzy-drunk tonight, _she_ would retain all her senses. He wasn’t terrible-looking, though he did look stupid in that suit. Clearly, there wasn’t much going on upstairs. With all the elegance of a bull in a china shop, he attempted to flirt back, and she indulged him, but she wasn’t genuinely attracted, not whatsoever.

But he _was_ decent-looking. That outrageous tuxedo hid bulging muscles, even though the super had allowed himself to grow fat over the years, just like a great number of the others had done. His yellow hair was thinning, but his square face was still handsome. And Mirage had to admit, there was something to be said about his bumbling efforts to flirt. She almost found them _cute_. But… puppy-cute. Not potential-sexual-partner cute.

They were speaking about her boss’s—and her own—attraction to power. Her guest called this attraction “unstable.”

“I prefer to think of it as… _misunderstood_ ,” she all but whispered, batting her eyelashes at him. Anybody with any brains in their heads would know they were being played for a fool at this point, but Mr. Incredible was _far_ more balls than brains.

“Aren’t we all?” he murmured back at her, eyes half-closed.

 _Aren’t we all…_ She almost laughed aloud at the utter inelegance of it. He really was a bull in a china shop, wasn’t he? One wonders how Mr. Incredible managed to snag a wife, with flirtation skills like this. He knew nothing of subtlety. Nothing at all.

Of course, she’d adjusted accordingly, and she wasn’t exactly being subtle, either.

Syndrome was the opposite. Her boss wasn’t exactly a looker—oh, he wasn’t _terrible_ , but no one would mistake him for a male model, either, with his silly hairstyle and mismatched facial features and somewhat rotund body, still retaining baby fat after seven years of adulthood. But he was sharp. You might be forgiven for not initially thinking he _was_ sharp: Syndrome was a study in contrasts, and his bladelike intelligence vs. his manic boyish tendencies made for a very fine contrast indeed. He could act like a child, and he had a childlike enthusiasm, but he was no fool, and Mirage had spent long nights debating him about politics, philosophy, technology…

About anything but the mission. Because while Mirage did have her own points of contention when it came to their bloody crusade against supers, Syndrome would hear no objections, and therefore, she didn’t present them. Best to keep the peace in their volcanic household.

Of course she’d slept with Syndrome. Regularly. To the point where, she had to admit, it wouldn’t be out-of-line to call them _lovers_. But, idly, she wished she could meet a man who combined the best traits of Syndrome and of Mr. Incredible. Intelligent but not an asshole. Good-looking. A sense of humor, but _mature_.

But for now, her boss would do. He’d do fine, actually. Mirage was doing pretty well for herself on Nomanisan Island. She had found herself a good position, here. And as long as she kept obeying her lover’s every edict, she would remain that way.

She asked Mr. Incredible how their homegrown fruits—grown in fertile, volcanic soil—compared to the fruits he knew back home. In reality, she was asking another question entirely.

“Everything’s delicious,” he replied, raising a toast, but she could see the way the super’s masked eyes dropped to her breasts. If her lower body had been visible instead of hidden under the table, those blue eyes would have dropped lower, she was sure of it.

Well, she’d snagged him. Great. He’d follow her like a puppy, to wherever she led him. Which, tonight, meant the bedroom.

Of course, Mirage had her fears. Syndrome hadn’t given her any explicit warnings about Mr. Incredible’s physiology, but she was certain the super could snap her like a twig, in a moment where self-control was forgotten. And Mirage could easily become the inducer of lost self-control.

Tonight, she’d be careful. Oh, would she. No matter what Syndrome opined, Mirage knew this mission wasn’t—would _never_ be—worth her life.

Mirage’s bedroom was located in another area of the island entirely—and, obviously, she didn’t take Mr. Incredible there. That was an intimate place that belonged only to her, and what was going to occur tonight was not an intimate event. There would be no romantic exchange between Mirage and her target. This transaction was purely strategic, whether Mr. Incredible knew it or not. Which, of course, he didn’t. He remained blissfully unaware. He thought Mirage was in love with him, thought she was burning for him.

She took him by the hand and led him away from the table, leaving all the fruits and meats behind, sitting there to rot. A servant would attend to them tomorrow. They always disappeared silently by the next day, as Mirage and her victim never managed to entirely eat their dinner. Syndrome set out outrageous feasts worthy of a dozen kings. Of _course_ they never finished the food.

She led him down a dark hallway, and the glowing light of the lava slowly disappeared, giving way to white, fluorescent lights that lined their way. They passed a number of doors, all locked tight, and Mr. Incredible hesitantly asked, “Er… what’s in there?”

She smiled and lowly demurred, “Storage. Not much of interest.” In fact, the rotting remains of Mr. Incredible’s slaughtered friends were kept in those rooms. Syndrome kept them there—so close to the dining table, where other supers would feast—because he thought this juxtaposition was hilarious.

Mr. Incredible was too focused on her to question this, and this was exactly how Mirage had wanted it. He couldn’t smell anything, either. Her perfume and his sweat were both too strong, and besides, Syndrome had ways of masking the rotting scent. If you actually went in those rooms, though—got close to the desiccated bodies—you could smell it. It was rank.

Mirage only went in those rooms when Syndrome made her, when he wanted her to watch his weird experiments. Which was rarely. For all his faults, Syndrome did afford Mirage some respect, and when she’d expressed her initial disgust at the rotting superhero corpses, he’d relented and allowed her to leave, and ever since then, he’d only asked her to return once. Never let it be said that Buddy Pine didn’t have a conscience. He did. It was just buried deep, where very few could reach it.

She led Mr. Incredible to another room, a room she knew was safe. One press of her fingertip against the small screen that worked in place of a doorknob, and the door swung open, recognizing her print. Inside, nothing fancy: a bed, immaculately-made with silk sheets; two bedside tables with silver lamps; a dresser, just for show, with nothing actually inside. Mr. Incredible couldn’t know it, but the bedframe was comprised of a special metal that would not break even under _his_ not-unimpressive strength and weight. Syndrome had ensured it, just for tonight’s events. It was needed.

The mattress, however? It was just an ordinary mattress. Bob went into the room ahead of her and sat down, uncertain and hesitant like a little boy; the mattress springs groaned under his weight, the silk sheets rustling.

It was a balancing act for Mirage. Stay sultry. Stay in-awe of his power, of his muscles, his girth. Make him feel wanted, needed, lusted after. Give him the ride of his life. Make him _want_ , desperately, to return.

She’d do it all. But, hell, she deserved a raise for this.

 _Well_ , she thought idly as she watched Mr. Incredible blink at her _, I_ don’t _need a raise, actually._ Not many women in the world were paid one-quarter as much as Syndrome paid her. Now was no time to get greedy. She was lucky. She was very, very, very lucky.

 _Lucky you haven’t been arrested yet,_ a snide voice in the back of her mind told her.

Well, they’d cross that bridge when they came to it.

For all his attempts at flirting at the dinner table, when it actually came down to the bedroom—literally and metaphorically—Bob seemed lost. “Um,” he said, staring at Mirage—eyes fixed firmly on her eyes, without straying downward, this time. He was drunk, but not so drunk that he would be unable to resist her, if he so desired. “I’ve got a wife,” he awkwardly confessed, as if she didn’t already know this. “A beautiful wife, and three kids, and maybe I’d better not—”

She shushed him, leaning forward and placing a slim finger on his lips. Sensory stimulation—not unpurposeful. Every micro-movement served a purpose, now. “If you want to leave,” she said, buttery and smooth, “you’re welcome. I understand. But just know that you’re a good man. What you’ve done today—what you’ve done over the years, for the people of the world—it’s all good. You’ve done so much, so well. You’ve been _so_ good,” she murmured, stepping infinitesimally closer with every other word, until Bob was forced to crane his neck to stare upwards into her eyes. “And don’t you think—just for one tiny night—you deserve a reward?”

Maybe he _was_ drunk enough. She wasn’t sure, yet.

“I—” He hesitated, torn. But her heat was pressing into him.

Mirage had him by the throat.

Well, not literally. But you know.

She leaned forward, so that her white hair brushed over his head. She wasn’t a tall woman, and even though Bob was sitting down and she was standing, her latex-clothed breasts were all but pressed into his face. They were small, her breasts, but she was certain they were perkier than his wife’s. She was younger than his wife, after all. And better in-shape.

“You’ve been confined to one woman for so long. Chained. Don’t you think you _deserve_ to taste something different, for a change?” she murmured, leaning down through the curtain of her hair and pressing her mouth against his head, so that her words vibrated through his skull. “…Mr. Incredible?”

That was all it took: the saying of his name. Let no one say that the man wasn’t a narcissist, because he was. He _was_.

He lunged up, and at first, he missed her mouth, getting the side of her cheek instead. The next time he aimed, he struck home. His mouth was on hers, and though he was terrible at flirting, Mr. Incredible was a decent kisser, after all. She kissed back, hungrily, and his enormous hands clamped onto her waist—already squeezing too hard; her breath was gone. This, likely, was his version of being gentle and tender.

Her own hands covered his—well, as much as they could—and she pulled slightly away from his mouth, gently chiding, “I’m _breakable_ , you know.”

She wondered how often his wife had to remind him of the same thing.

“Oh. Of course. Sorry,” he mumbled, like a schoolboy caught stealing candy. He was gentler from then on—gentler than he needed to be, touching her lighter than a feather. The kissing continued for a while, making out like teenagers. The giant hands roamed her back, her ass, and she buried her own hands in what little hair the old man had left. Well, he wasn’t old. He was probably a decade her senior, but he wasn’t _old_. But still—not much hair.

Christ, he smelled bad. A chemical mixture of musk, sweat, and cheap cologne threatened to overcome her. She tried her best to ignore it. His lips found the skin of her chest, just above where her tight dress began to conceal. “May I…?” he mumbled, hands finding the tiny, near-invisible zipper on her back.

“Rip it off,” she purred, almost a growl. She wouldn’t miss the dress. She had a dozen identical. Just for this purpose.

He obliged, but ignored the zipper in his lust. His fingers found a niche between the straps, tearing it away. The dress separated as easily as wrapping paper on Christmas, almost without a sound, and it was gone.

With men like Mr. Incredible, and women like her, there would be no intimate undressing, no sensual removal of clothes. It was all or nothing, baby.

She had lingerie for occasions like this, but she’d read Mr. Incredible as the kind of man who would likely not appreciate such things—not tonight, at least. Maybe with his wife, on slower, more loving nights, lingerie would be a nice touch. But not tonight, not with “the other woman,” who Bob had likely already characterized in his mind as “his mistress.” Tonight, it was straight to business.

She was bared, every inch of olive skin on display—legs for days, toned, fit, but soft where it mattered—and she stepped back slightly so that Mr. Incredible could take the vision in. He did, hungrily, with roving blue eyes.

“Jesus,” he said, almost choking on the word.

“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” she asked with a knowing eyebrow quirked. They both knew what the unspoken question meant. It had been a long time since he’d seen a woman other than Helen, his spouse. Monotony. For decades. Clearly, with his hungry eyes, Mr. Incredible was highly appreciative of the change.

It’s funny, Mirage idly thought, the stunning likeness between the words “monogamy” and “monotony.”

“So you dye your hair, huh?” he said lowly.

It took her a moment. “Oh—yeah,” she laughed obligingly, a falsely sensual laugh, _ha—ha—ha_. Her bush was dark brown, like her natural hair color. She’d trimmed it down, because she knew how to read men’s every desire, even down to the minutiae, and she’d read Mr. Incredible as the kind of guy who’d want her to trim. His wife of fifteen years was a pudgy mother-of-three and homemaker who likely had no time or inclination to trim her own bush, and since Mirage was aiming to be the exact _opposite_ of Helen Parr—well.

She wouldn’t go full Brazilian, though. _No_ man was worth that.

“Enjoying the view?” she asked the super, eyebrow quirked.

“Come here,” he said, voice choked with desire and with the vestiges of shoved-aside guilt. She quickly realized he meant to get _right_ to business. 

She approached and he grabbed her around the waist, pulling her flush against him, still sitting on the bed, but when she realized he meant to flip her and pin her underneath him, she resisted with a laugh—must keep things light, as always. She was straddling his wide lap, and she could feel him even under the suit, so hard against her. “That’s not a great idea,” she gently warned him. “You know?”

“Oh—yeah. Sorry.” He looked embarrassed. “Sometimes I forget, you know? With Helen, I don’t have to remember.”

Warning signs in the back of Mirage’s head questioned why Bob didn’t need to remember to be gentle with his wife, but she stored those worries away for another day. Right now, she needed to steer his thoughts away from Helen. 

She leaned forward and kissed the hell out of him, arms tangling around his neck, to the point where she was nearly choked by his mouth, the heat and saliva and tongues tangling together and him growing ever-harder between her legs, and then she reared up, allowing him to bend down and catch a tit in his mouth, sucking like he was a goddamn baby. It hurt—but only a little, so she allowed it. Obviously nothing would be focused on _her_ pleasure tonight.

She moaned unabashedly, pretending like she was so turned on she could hardly breathe, and when it worked—she felt him buck underneath her, unconsciously—she did it again, moaning and moaning as though his clumsy, slightly-painful suckling at her breasts was the hottest thing that had ever happened to her.

Mirage ground against him, pressing her hips down against the ever-increasing erection, and she suddenly thought about his girth. She had a slender frame, while Mr. Incredible was built like the most outrageous bodybuilder imaginable—never mind his weight situation, his obesity at the moment. His dick could possibly be larger than her body could accommodate. She hadn’t explicitly discussed this with Syndrome, but she knew what he’d say. In that situation, she’d have to get down on her knees, or make use of her hands, satisfying the target however her body was able.

“Mr. Incredible,” she groaned against his scalp, “yes. Yes.”

Again, saying his name proved too much for the superhero. “I’ve gotta get these damn things off…” he muttered against her breasts as his giant hands snaked down between them, pressed against her belly and searching for his belt buckle.

She helped him, briefly getting up and stepping away so that she could assist with his belt buckle and unbutton his shirt and peel his suit away, too, sneaking kisses in between, to keep him interested—though she believed, perhaps smugly, that the concept of him becoming _disinterested_ was a ludicrous impossibility, now. Before long they were both bare, and without sneaking more than a glance at his body—tubby, pudgy, hair in all the wrong places, grossly pale like a fish’s belly—she climbed back onto his lap. Must keep him interested, stimulated. At all times.

“Let me get a good look,” she crooned, and with four slender fingers on his chest she pushed him back against the bed, so that he was lying down with her on top. The only safe position for them, she assumed. She scanned his body, pretending to be more turned on with every inch she viewed. “Oh, Christ…” she murmured, willing her face to blush as though he was the first naked guy she’d ever laid eyes upon. In reality, her focus was briefly consumed by his arm: the dark red slash across the forearm, the Omnidroid’s work. Syndrome was here in this room, on Mr. Incredible’s body, in spirit if nothing else.

Mr. Incredible was flushed, she could see even in the dim lighting—desire? Embarrassment? She wouldn’t blame him for either. Yet, he still wore his super mask, and Mirage wouldn’t dream of removing that. For this man, his mask equaled his masculinity, his power, his strength—and it was all these things that Mirage was trying to inflate.

“Like what you see?” he asked, trying to keep some of that suaveness, and failing miserably.

“You really are Mr. Incredible,” Mirage murmured, moving back slightly so that she could see his dick underneath her. He was so hard for her. Oh, and just as big as she’d imagined—though, thankfully, no bigger. She could accommodate him. Barely.

She felt his body tighten at her words, saying his name yet again. She could play him like a well-tuned violin. She was totally in control. That was the feeling she relished. At this point, this sucker would do anything for her, and she allowed herself to revel in the deliciousness of it.

“Mr. _Incredible_ ,” she said again, slightly louder, as she positioned herself over him. She took hold of his cock, spread her legs wider and guided the mammoth thing towards her entrance. She wasn’t very wet, but she doubted the guy would notice.

Mr. Incredible groaned loudly as he entered her, and reached up to grasp her around the waist, but with her free hand she smacked his hands away, both of them in turn. “Wait,” she said more sharply than she’d intended, briefly forgetting Syndrome’s command to keep things light.

He obeyed, hands falling limply to his sides. Lying down and looking up at her as he was, she could see his double chin in stark relief. The disgust, for some reason, served to turned her on.

She slid down onto him, unable to hold in a small gasp at the sheer _size_. It was a wonder she didn’t split apart.

He reached up again, dumbly. This time she allowed him to take hold, around her waist, hands playing with her hair, kneading her small breasts, as she moved back and forth almost mechanically at first, but soon growing harder and softer in alternation, clamping her thighs around his hips and gyrating until the man began to breathe heavily underneath her, small breaths puffing into the air as though he were running a marathon instead of letting _her_ do all the work.

She did feel small shocks of pleasure as her clit rubbed against him, briefly, but it was nothing that could get her off. And, of course, she had expected that. Other than her brief lapse in judgement, everything tonight—as always—would be about her target’s pleasure. About reeling him in. About her being the carrot. Of course, Mr. Incredible didn’t make any efforts to make her come, either. That was to be expected, too.

He reared underneath her when he came, making a stupid, elephant-like noise and grasping onto her hips, holding her down against him for an inordinate amount of time. She almost rolled her eyes, trying not to look as contemptuous as she felt, and finally allowed herself to admit that she hated when Syndrome made her do this.

As a matter of principle, half Mirage’s life was spent playing pretend—pretending to simper to superheroes, gently accentuating their strengths and making them preen, faking that she gave a damn. This, however—of course, _this_ pretense was not beyond her skills; very little was. Still, she fundamentally despised it. There were two levels to her feelings about sleeping with targets: on one level, she was proud of her ability to effortlessly make a man or woman melt under the ravishment of her praises and attention; on another level, she resented being a whore. And oh, did she resent it.

But when Mr. Incredible’s eyes returned to her own, she pretended to be melting in bliss, and made small, mouse-like squeaks of enjoyment. As though this big lug could ever make her come without the most express of direction from her. For all the grandeur of his name, Mr. Incredible was not the kind of guy who makes women come with his own prowess. He was the kind of man who needs a woman to guide him. And that wasn’t Mirage’s job.

She felt his semen, hot inside her. It didn’t matter. Mirage had an IUD, and was on the pill, and even if both of those measures failed, the island had an on-site clinic which would readily attend to her needs as they arose. Not that Mr. Incredible had thought about _that_ little detail. No matter. She could do the thinking for the both of them.

Something happened that she hadn’t anticipated. Mr. Incredible’s left hand snapped upward—of its own accord, unconsciously? She couldn’t tell—and gripped her shoulder, and for the first time that night, she felt a tiny, minute portion of exactly how strong this superhero was. She winced, felt a pop, a crack, until she was forced to cry out in pain.

“Get off,” she hissed through clenched teeth, and Mr. Incredible came back to himself; bright red and heaving breaths from the exertion of his orgasm, he nonetheless removed his hand on the instant.

“Sorry,” he panted. “Jesus, I’m sorry, I forgot.”

Mirage’s own slender hand had reached up to grasp her injured shoulder, feeling it tenderly for signs of injury. She didn’t think anything was broken, but surely she would have a bruise the next morning.

She forced herself to offer a demure smile and purr, “It’s alright. A little pain is just part of the package with you, isn’t it? Mr. Incredible?”

“No, I don’t like that kind of stuff,” insisted the superhero. “I don’t need to hurt a woman to get off, it ruins the whole mood. Look, I just need you to know that I didn’t mean to do it.”

He was staring at her expectantly, waiting for her forgiveness. She almost wanted to withhold it, just to see the hurt look on the brute’s face.

She leaned down—he was still inside her—and brushed a kiss across the hero’s mouth. Her long silver hair draped across and over his face. “No harm, no foul,” she whispered in his ear. Her shoulder ached, laughing at her fib.

As she got closer to him, that terrible smell overwhelmed her nostrils again, but she made herself forget and kissed him again, slowly and languidly, as though she were deeply in love, in awe.

“Was it… good?” he mumbled awkwardly as her lips moved to his fat neck.

She offered a slow, lazy chuckle, preparing herself to lie once again.

“Well, you _are_ Mr. Incredible.”


End file.
